THE FATHER

Finest of fathers, sometimes I reflect
upon your patient rectitude and gentle way,
your humble courtesy to all failed to eject
integrity, nor courage held at bay.
Your eyes revealed your mild soul, clean and kind,
your words were ever tolerant and fair.
The lowest place was yours, you stayed behind,
let others claw and elbow for your share.
You neither longed for wealth nor cared for fame,
your wage derived as streams poured from your brow,
you passed unseen - few ever knew your name
and when you died in agony, few cared how.
The memory of your meekness deems it odd
that your face looms each time I think of God.

Luky Whittle

THE BEAUTY OF AN AFRICAN STORM

The shadows begin their lugubrious dance,

a reaction to the descending

fire's flickering flame.

The sated clouds,

gorged with water,

wait for Nature's thunderous symphony

to signal their release

the storm growls

like a primitive creature

about to demonstrate its power.

I stand alone

marvelling at the terrifying

beauty of God's clash of Nature

I know I'm wrong

to appoint myself an unsheltered witness

of the beauty of an African storm.

I feel like a view

of an artist at work,

an expression of unparalleled passion

without the help of Man.

It takes no heed of my unwanted presence,

This battle has existed

long before Man

and will continue to prevail long after.

I turn my back

on the grey roof,

blocking out the stars,

jealous of their eternal beauty.

I ought to feel afraid,

yet I feel firm,

for I was for a moment

part of the beauty of an African storm.

Lumiere Volunteer AW

POETRY IS A FORM OF ART

Poetry is a form of art. 
MANY LUMIERE CHARITY VOLUNTEERS AND FRIENDS write poetry. 
Poetry is a great tradition in the Whittle, Nooij and Hogenhout Families. 
  I remember poring over my Irish grandfather's poetry when I was a tiny child. 
  Nicholas Whittle wrote both English and Gaelic poetry, and I loved to read both his poetry and his books - among them, The Gentle County. 
  I particularly remember one book of poems with a beautiful cover, and the name I think he used, Nioclas De Fuiteoil. 

  I was very impressed at age five to discover that my Irish grandad (after whom I was named Nicolette) - had more than one name. 
  Mom explained the Gaelic name, and I was thrilled at the thought of Grandad's being a poet and writer. 
  I promptly wrote and illustrated my first book the next week, and bound it with large stitches with cotton and needle. 
  I remember the thrill of being a budding author to this day . . .

Mom was a writer for as long as I can remember, and Dad wrote too. 
  I remember reading Dad's books (he never published them). 
  He wrote about his experiences in the war, and I found them too sad to bear. 
  They were illustrated with photographs that a war correspondent friend of his had taken. 
  It was from Dad's books and those photographs that I learned the true price and pathos of war. 
  As a young child Dad wandered down to the Tramore beach, hands in his pockets and whistling, and saw something floating in on the tide. 
  He took off his sandals, went into the waters and found the badly mutilated body of an airman whose aircraft had been shot down. 
  The injuries don't bear retelling in a family blog. "What did you do, Dad?" I asked. "I prayed for him," he said simply. At nine years old he had to deal with this tragic sight.

Grandad's poetry was beautiful, full of grandeur and love for Ireland. 
  And Mom's poetry had a life all of its own. I think that in poetry the poet can express the deepest feelings in a uniquely personal way.   Mom's lifelong love of poetry found expression in her book "A Silence Full of Bells".
  In the spirit of love of poetry, Lumiere Charity Volunteers and Friends' poems will be brought forth from the many diaries, back of old letters and carefully illustrated books written throughout the years and shared with you, our beloved readers.

Why not write your own poetry? 
(Just a thought . . .)